Be My Escape
by Clear Chronic Depression
Summary: When Maureen L. was 14, she was killed by her drunk father. She thought everyone hated her, but a young Matthew Smithson didn't. In fact, he loved her. Barely knew her, but loved her. Years later and still grieving over Maureen, Matt has a cold wife, a ev


Maureen Annamaria Litten strummed her guitar as the words to a song she was randomly making up floated out of her pale, chapped lips. In other words, her mouth, to put it simply. She was young, a girl of only fourteen, but already she was excellent at controlling her voice and commanding her guitar. And already Maureen had so many problems. Her life had been spinning out of control for the last two and a half years, and she was sick of it. Purely, simply, beggingly sick. From her mother committing suicide because of her father beating Maureen, to her father drinking and yelling himself hoarse, to her best friends leaving her, to her boyfriend cheating, and more, Maureen was sick of it all. She never wanted it. Nobody did.

Mary, as Maureen was rarely called, even though she begged everyone around her to call her by it, wasn't pretty. She wasn't supermodel, top shelf barbie material. No, she was by far...Uniquely ugly, as she called herself. Maureen's limp brown curls dragged past her shoulders, like a broken broom sweeping up mulch from a modern day driveway. Her dull blue eyes weren't special, they didn't sparkle when strangers mentioned clothes. And her figure? Not even remotely close to what she wished it was. All in all, Mary wasn't special. A least, on the outside she wasn't. But on the inside... Well, she definately was something under there.

Maureen set her guitar against the wall, and walked across her room to look out of the dirty, seldomly washed window. The street below was full of small children, some bouncing balls, some riding miniture bikes, some being scolded by mothers wearing bandana's and cooking aprons. Mary let her forehead settle against the cold glass, and closed her eyes as she let herself wander into dreamland. It was a hobby of hers, and she did this to escape. After all, it wasn't like she had anything to do. No guys were interested in courting her, none of her so called friends wanted to use her to cure boredness, and it wasn't like her father wanted shit to do with her. Little did she know, a young man named Matthew Smithson fancied her.

Behind Maureen, her bedroom door slammed open, and her apparently very drunk father stumbled in, a murderous look on his face. "Girl!" He roared, fists clenching, eyes rolling back into his head. "Y- Yes father?" Mary asked, a sear of pain shooting through her system, adrenaline begining to pump. "I told you to cook dinner!" Andrew picked up Maureen's favorite lamp, a crystaline purple one of a flower, the one her mother had given her, and through it against the wall, where it shattered into a million glistening pieces.

After doing so, Andrew stumbled, realized what he had done, and fell to his knee's begining to sob uncontrollably. "Dad!" Despite being a little mad at him the moment before, Mary hurried over to her father, dropped to her knee's, and patted his back. Suddenly, Andrew stopped shaking, and with a harsh smack, sent his only daughter flying across the room. Maureen was sprawled on top of the shimmering glass, in which it begin to cut her, blood seeping out. Andrew smiled maniacally, and stood, withdrawing a gun from his jeans pocket. "Good bye, you hoe." His smile grew, and a gun shot rang through the silence. A moment later, Maureen Annamaria Litten was dead.

Matt Smithson stepped away from his Mustang, glinting in the sun, and walked swiftly up the drive to the Police station, where he glanced down at the days report. His eyes froze, lips parted from when he had been, a second before, silently speaking the report. "No." He whispered, a hand running through his dark blonde hair. "No." After all these years, they finally had a answer. Matt slammed his cup of coffee down on the secretarys desk as he made his way to cell number one hundred fifty two. The cell occupants murmured and grinned nastily as he passed, but Matt ignored them as he unlocked his destinated cell, and stepped inside. A man of about seventy was sitting on a bench, and he looked up as he felt Matthew Erick Smithsons gaze fall upon him.

The card chained with a number around Andrew Harold Littens neck shimmered in the slim sliver of light in the cell, and he smiled toothily. "Come to keep me company?" He asked the twenty five year old cockily, surprising for a man of such a age. "No." Matt replied stonily. "I've actually come to ask you why you killed your daughter, miss Maureen Annamaria Litten, twelve years ago." Andrew's smile faded rather quickly, and his aura became to feel the way running through water did: Hard, cold, demanding. "I've no business with you to talk about that." He replied, turning away. "I want to know why you killed the girl I liked, god damn it!" Matt's voice turned hysterical as his eyes flashed dangerously.

Matt looked down, ashamed. He wasn't supposed to lose his cool like this. He was a specially trained and certified police man. He had a wife. But when you came from a past like his... It was difficult. Kids had teased him continuiously throughout the years, his father had beaten him, and his wife was very...cold. Plus, the death of the young women he hadn't known very well, but loved a lot. His friends had once asked him about why he loved her when he barely even knew her, but he had only shrugged. Matt had a tendency to see through the worst in people.

Andrew looked over his shoulder at him. "You liked her?" He asked quietly, guilt for what he had done once again flowing through him. "Loved her, more like it." Matt replied, before slamming his hand against the wall. Police man weren't supposed to tell personal information to cell occupants. "Don't tell anyone I told you that." Matthew ordered, and left the cell. Even though he knew he had no chance of Matt hearing, Andrew said, "I won't." It was probably the most honest thing he had ever said in his life.


End file.
